Being Real
by SabaceanBabe
Summary: Kara and Sharon were friends, once...


Title: Being Real

Author: SabaceanBabe

Rating: PG-13

Word count: 2,190

Focus: Kara Thrace and Sharon Agathon

Spoilers: for _Scar_ and _Six of One_

Author's Note: This was written for the Galpalficathon and is, obviously, way overdue, but I found the prompt _"Kara Thrace and Sharon Agathon, being real"_ intriguing. It was a good way, I think, to explore the somewhat tentative and uneasy friendship that we've seen between these two. Thank you to Mamaboolj and Stardust20 for the beta.

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Kara's fingers curled around the wire mesh and into the gap between glass and metal, her knuckles brushing against the cold glass. It was odd, being on this side of the barriers, a new experience for her. But even in all the times she'd been in _Galactica_'s brig, there had never been anything more intimidating than metal bars between her and the rest of the ship. Nothing like this. Glass thick enough and strong enough to stop a bullet, reinforced by heavy mesh and steel bulkheads, with armed Marines on constant watch. It all seemed like overkill as Kara watched the cage's lone occupant.

Assuming martial arts stances in measured movements, she made it look more like dancing in slow motion than physical conditioning; the Cylon was beyond graceful, even in pregnancy. Her hair was loose to swing about her face and shoulders; her feet were bare, giving her a better grip on the metal decking than either socks or boots. If Kara put her face right up to the mesh so that she could no longer see it, she could almost believe that this Cylon was the girl who had been her friend, so long ago. A _real_ girl, not a construct.

Memories of the million and one times Boomer had performed these same moves while Starbuck and Helo sparred on the other side of the gym came flooding in and Kara's grip tightened on the mesh enough to cut off the flow of blood to her fingers and turn her knuckles white. The Cylon abruptly stilled, just before she turned to face the observation window. Her eyes met Kara's and for a wild moment, Kara thought maybe the Cylon was remembering, too.

Kara took a deep breath. "Corporal Venner, unlock the door." Her eyes never left the Cylon.

"Sir, no one is allowed inside the cell." Even as he protested, Kara heard the rattle of keys and the scrape of his chair as he stood.

"I need to question the prisoner. Do I have to bring you a permission slip?"

"No, sir," Venner responded, unfazed by her sarcasm. "But I do have to check in."

Kara shifted so that she could see both the Cylon and the Marine. The Cylon remained standing in the center of the cell, wary and still as she watched the window. Her arms rose, breaking that stillness as her hands cradled her belly in a protective gesture. Venner walked over and lifted the handset by the hatch.

Satisfied that he was indeed _checking in_ to make sure she wasn't here to break his prisoner out of the brig, Kara turned back to the window in time to see the Cylon's eyes widen. She spread her fingers out over her rounded stomach for a moment before reaching down to grab the sweat jacket slung carelessly on the end of her cot. She shrugged it over her arms and shoulders and zipped it halfway, just enough to cover the baby that grew inside her.

Kara cocked her head to one side and smiled humorlessly, reminding herself that this was not, in fact, Sharon Valerii. She was not the kid who was given a call sign by her squadron, as much a warning as an identifier. She was _not_ Boomer. She _was_ a _Cylon_.

And right now the fleet's Cylon problem was worse than usual.

Venner stepped past Kara and slid his key into the lock, allowing her to step into the cell. It was no surprise when a second Marine, this one sporting a rifle – _Really? A rifle? Wouldn't a normal side arm do the trick?_ – followed her in and then Venner locked the door behind them.

The Cylon again crossed her arms protectively over her midsection and turned away from the rifle-toting Marine. While Kara pulled the cell's single chair closer, the Cylon folded her long legs beneath her as she sat in the center of the cot. She looked uncomfortable and unhappy, but then she lifted her eyes to look at Kara and all emotion disappeared as though a mask had dropped over those familiar features.

_Dammit, she is not Boomer._ Without meaning to, Kara asked aloud, "What the hell are you?"

The Cylon's response surprised her. There was a choked-off snort of laughter and then, "How long do you have?"

For a moment, Kara felt a sensation that was almost vertigo as the memories she'd earlier held in check broke through.

"_I'm Sharon. I remember the first day I met you, Starbuck. You were puking your guts out in the head…"_

It was true. She and Helo had just gotten back from a leave rotation and Kara had fought off the nausea from a hangover the entire shuttle trip back to _Galactica_. She'd lost it as soon as she'd hit the head, though, and she'd told the noob who'd asked if she was okay that she'd eaten a batch of bad oysters.

"_She seemed so real. Like Sharon, you know? Same grin, same laugh. All the little things. I fell in love with a machine..."_

"_Procreation. It's one of God's commandments…"_

"_Sharon – this Sharon – saved us back on Caprica. Tell them! Tell them!"_

She blinked once, twice. Sharon watched— _The Cylon_ watched her, clearly saw what was going on in Kara's head. Boomer had watched her like that, sometimes. And now this Sharon did it, too. As if she knew what Kara was thinking, not from reading her mind, but from years of shared experiences.

_Frak! This has to stop, Thrace._

Kara leaned back in the chair and stretched her legs out in front of her, affecting an indifference she didn't feel. "Okay." She tilted her head and forced a smirk. She was the Great and Mighty Starbuck, after all. Inwardly rolling her eyes at herself, she forged ahead with her purpose for being here. "You're a Cylon. And I need some advice. Tell me about the raiders. Tell me about Scar…"

***

When Sharon arrived, the lights in the brig were dim. It was late and most of the ship was asleep. She had no real business here, but Sergeant Venner didn't question her presence, just nodded a greeting and returned to his dog-eared book. Sharon was glad that he was on duty, and not some more zealous guard. The fact that he didn't salute was quiet acknowledgement that she was here unofficially and a far cry from when she'd last been in the brig, when she'd been on the other side of the barriers. She turned toward Venner's single prisoner and watched her through the bars without moving further into the room.

This wasn't the first time Sharon had seen Kara Thrace through a set of metal bars. There had been a time when the two of them had joked that Starbuck should just move her things to the brig and be done with it.

"_Maybe the Commander should just assign you a cell. There'd be more room in here for the rest of us." Sharon shot a significant look at Kara's locker, but Starbuck just rolled her eyes and puffed on her cigar._

"_Whatever, rook." She blew out a smoke ring, perfectly aimed at Sharon's face. "Shut up and deal."_

Kara lay on a pallet on the floor; the bedding had been dragged from the metal frame of what looked more like a child's trundle bed than a military cot. Sharon knew from long experience just how uncomfortable a cot like that could be, although she did wonder why it wasn't the standard accommodation to be found in hack. Perhaps it was an indication of Admiral Adama's anger at Starbuck's most recent infraction. Holding a gun on the President of the Colonies was way more serious than anything she'd pulled before, and even the Old Man couldn't overlook that.

A small part of Sharon held to the fragile hope that this _was _indeed Kara Thrace, was _Starbuck_, and not some copy created by the Cylons. She wanted to believe that Kara had returned from the dead, resurrected somehow without any help or interference from Sharon's former "family." But Sharon had never believed in magic and she wasn't sure she believed in divine intervention, either. Not anymore. Kara's Viper had been destroyed in that explosion, all but vaporized. Nothing and no one could have survived that, even if she'd had the time and inclination to eject.

But then, that was why Sharon was here. To see if she could determine for herself if the woman in the cell was real or fake, for her own peace of mind and for Helo's. It wasn't just that Karl was concerned for his friend. Given this new mission he'd assigned her and a handful of others, he was also concerned for Sharon, who would be out of touch and out of reach for who knew how long, living with a potentially dangerous unknown.

Forcing herself to finish what she'd started, Sharon took one silent step and then another, closing the distance to the cell until she could reach out and curl her fingers around the bars. The metal was smooth and cold.

"Starbuck."

Sharon pitched her voice low, barely more than a whisper, but the woman on the pallet opened her eyes and rolled her head toward the sound. She frowned – "Athena?" – and rolled into a seated position, but she made no move to get up or to approach the bars. She ran her hands over her face and then shook her head. "What time is it?"

"Oh one thirty eight."

Kara raised a brow and leaned back against the wall, one leg out straight in front of her and the other bent. "What the hell?"

Sharon shrugged. "I couldn't sleep." It was more or less true. What she couldn't tell Kara was the why of her sleeplessness. She couldn't tell her about the mission, which Karl had made very clear was top secret – the only people who knew about it were him, the Old Man, and the handful of pilots chosen for the mission. Although the whole thing revolved around Kara Thrace, she was to know nothing about it until Admiral Adama told her himself.

"You couldn't sleep. So naturally, you head to the brig. Visiting the old homestead?"

Everything about her – the casual stance, the sarcasm that fairly dripped from her voice, the look in those green eyes, even the way she had shaken her head a moment ago, when Sharon woke her – everything screamed _Kara Thrace_. But still Sharon had doubts.

"You shouldn't be here," Sharon told her.

This time, both brows shot up. "Even I know that holding a gun on the President is a crime."

Sharon shook her head. "That's not what I meant." Apollo's gun camera footage played out in her head. They had watched it over and over again, trying to find any hope, however slim, that Starbuck might have ejected or that some part of that Viper could have remained intact. "You can't be here. You should be dead, scattered in a million pieces along with your bird."

Kara pushed away from the wall, rolled to her knees and then got to her feet. Her socks made no sound on the decking as she took the half-dozen steps to the cell door. She gripped the bars, her hands just below Athena's. The whole time, her eyes never left Sharon's.

"I don't know what to tell you. I'm here. I'm alive. I'm real."

"Are you?"

Kara blinked, opened her mouth to spout off a quick retort, but then closed it again. Her eyes narrowed as they met Sharon's. "Why are you here?"

Sharon allowed nothing to show on her face as she shrugged, let go of the bars, took a step back. "Helo wants to believe you."

Another blink and Kara flinched, the movement infinitesimal, but Sharon was watching for any reaction, anything that could tell her what she so desperately wanted to know: Was this the real Kara Thrace or a Cylon construct? Could Sharon lay Helo's fears to rest? Or could she say, once and for all time, that this was not Starbuck reborn, returned from the dead and ready to lead them to Earth rather than to their ultimate destruction?

But Kara's reaction wasn't enough to tell Sharon anything other than that she _could_ be the real deal. Even when she threw up her hands and turned back to her pallet and said, "Frak you, _Athena_," it wasn't enough, one way or the other. Kara might react that way to the situation, but Sharon had expected something more… intense. Hell, she didn't know what she really expected.

"Are you still here?" Kara's voice, coming from the shadows of the cell, low to the floor. She was back on the pallet, back in the I-don't-give-a-frak-what-you-think position of before, a smirk on her face as her tone turned a little meaner, a little more Starbuck. "Get the frak out of here, Toaster Girl. And you can tell your husband I don't give a damn what he believes." But there was hurt under that last. A hurt that reassured Sharon more than any words could have.


End file.
